A humorous look at how a woman perseveres amidst a life that intrudes on the dream.

Sunday

...weird but wonderful

The whole point of this book can be summed up in this one essay. I am unique, just like everyone else and I have found that through forthright examination of my/our pecularities, I/we can find unaminity in purpose and understanding---if for no other reason than to elicit laughs.

Dear Me,When I’m asked by a form-filler-outer to state my
occupation, I say, “I’m an enigma.”

“Oh,”
they respond, “Could you spell that?” It's Me, T. I’ve never been comfortable with the title of soccer mom, domestic engineer or goddess, because all those titles suggest a perfectionist slant that I don't have time for and while some would insist I'm a homemaker, I would have to insist that's a baldface lie and stay-at-home really means hardly-ever-stays-at-home-Mom. The fact is that I defy explaination and now when I mutter the newest title, alternate schooler, I expect someone to show up at the door to review my credentials and revoke me entirely.

What it is that I do is cook, garden, repair, sew, mud walls, paint, make bread, craft, remodel, collect bugs and I delight in making my children do all of those things—which makes me an oddity. Forty years ago, the term would have been “hippy,” now it's unfocused pinterest junkie.

I’m happy to settle for the word enigma. I suspect that most people are enigmatic and deeply interesting, but we all just muddle along striving to fit in and to appear on the surface as if we live homogeneous lives like everyone else.

I'm outted. I admit it, I'm an adventurer. I beam with delight when I hear the words, “Why are you doing that?” or “I didn’t know people did that anymore,” because deep down in some part of me, I enjoy being inscrutable.[1] I'm struggling to dump those remaining bits and pieces of the matching set of teen baggage—the pubescent paradox that seeks to be different while struggling desperately to fit in, and I have decided to get comfortable in my skin and become my authentic self.

Just the other day, one of my neighbors made the "you're inscrutable[2]" comment, and then followed it with, “Why are you doing that?” when she dropped by and I was attempting to quilt.I had material and padding stretched in between frames that were placed strategically over the couch and between the end tables and television, and I was crawling over and under the maze, tying it all up with yarn. She said, “People don’t do that anymore,” and I hoped she meant it in admiration, “…because they don’t know how,”as I’d like to be an innovator rather than a relic.

I’m from pioneer stock and that fact makes conformity difficult. I'm constantly beating down my yearning for challenge and therefore I camp (begrudgingly), hike (accidentally), fish (badly), preserve food, and cook in Dutch ovens (in desperation, when all the other pots are dirty).Although I sew, cook and grind my own flour, I’m too young to be an artifact so that makes me an enigma—which really means inscrutable[3] . It does make for interesting and amusing conversation at most dinner parties. [4]

Dear Me,

Today the doctor wanted to know what "I did."

"For a profession?" I asked, knowing full well she was trying to understand why I had attempted my own medical procedure before I went into her.

"Yes, what is it that you do?"

I answer, "I am an enigma."

I'm effecting a personal mystique because it only seems fair that if I haven’t yet defined who I am or what I’m doing, then no one else should figure me out before I do!

Reality Bite: My children are just
grateful that different, for me, doesn’t mean headbands, fringe, experimental drugs and psychedelic
hose.

[1] I
had to look it up too. It means
difficult to understand. Use it twice
more today. I plan to.